I went down to the beach next morning, and found it not unlike other sea-beaches. It is a mile or two miles long, with a bold, rocky headland on the westward, another marking the entrance of the San Lorenzo, a famous mountain trout-stream, to the Bay of Monterey. Near the mouth of the San Lorenzo, and inside of the bar over which the tide ebbs and flows, is the favorite resort of the bathers. I don't like salt water in any form,—in fact, am not partial to water of any kind; it has done immense injury to my family in days gone by, and came near depriving the world, at an early day, of the presence and services of your humble servant himself. The sea-bathing had no great attractions for me. I love woman in the abstract, and admire the Greek Slave and the Venus de Medici as works of art, but long observation has led me irresistibly to the conclusion that the daughters of my native land—to say nothing of the mothers—will not, as a rule, appear to advantage in a costume approaching the severely classic models alluded to. Mary Elizabeth Jane looks well in a ball-room, and is nice company at a picnic or on a moonlight ride; but I have observed with pain that M. E. J., clad in a red shirt, pair of Shanghai trowsers, and a flop hat, bobbing up and down in the breakers, loses some of her attractions. I have gazed with admiration on the red flamingo dancing on the edge of a quiet lagoon on the palm-fringed shores of Yucatan, because he seemed in keeping with, and a part of, the perfect picture. Even the gentle blue fly-up-the-creek has claims to consideration in his place; but M. E. J., dressed in the closest
